


Feelings You Don't Forget (or: Reasons to Burn Up Hell)

by Raichel



Series: Not Quite So Safe [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (but I don't think there's anything quite so bad to count as 'graphic'), (possibly), Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, and a heaping scoop of melodrama, off-page torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 17:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raichel/pseuds/Raichel
Summary: Crowley already lost Aziraphale once, and he's not going through that again.There will be hell to pay.





	1. Missing

There are some feelings it is impossible to really forget. Usually these feelings are painful: The burn of a stovetop, the sharp prick of a needle, an insect’s sting. Similarly, Crowley suspected he would never quite forget the awful feeling of not being able to find Aziraphale. That loneliness, emptiness, aimlessness, was a top contender for the worst feeling he’d ever known, grappling for the top spot with the sickening sinking agony of falling from heaven (he hadn’t ever forgotten that feeling, either). It could go either way depending on the day.

Certainly, without a doubt, Crowley recognized the feeling when it hit him. (And, coincidentally, when it hit him again it made a compelling case for being the absolute worst thing, beating out falling for at least a few days.) He was driving when it hit him all over again, and it took a lot of self control not to swerve off the road. Instead, he headed straight for the bookshop. 

It wasn’t burning, this time, just empty and locked. But the demon knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his angel was not there, nor anywhere on earth. Stepping into the abandoned bookshop, it felt unnatural, though it rarely had any customers anyway. The void in Crowley’s heart, such as it was, gnawed at him awfully, and the emptiness and silence did anything but help. He almost wanted to call out for Aziraphale, but it wouldn’t be any use. Demon instincts never lie.

There wasn’t much out of place in the bookshop, really. To the human senses it probably wouldn’t have offered up any clues. But Crowley knew the smell of sulfur, stronger than what came off his own demonic form (it barely smelled at all these days, having spent so little time in hell), confirming his suspicions. 

He had to go back to hell.

 

Crowley didn’t waste much time. He didn’t have enough time to procure holy water, not by a long shot, and it was likely too risky anyway. But he had plenty of demonic power in his own right (older demons had more to work with than newer stock; they had been angels, after all, and that offered a lot of power). Not to mention he had one of the most potent fuels of demonic power, second only to chaos: rage. 

He was ready, descending into hell, to destroy anything that opposed him. Anything to relieve the awful feeling of being utterly alone. He would dismantle hell piece by piece if he had to, and he’d certainly have no qualms with killing demons if they had so much as touched Aziraphale. He’d put on his best menacing look, as well: wings unfurled and eyes entirely yellow, save for his slitted pupils. By the time he stepped into Hell proper there was enough pent-up rage just below the surface that he could’ve easily razed a city block, lord help the first demon he came into contact with.

But he didn’t come into contact with a demon. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed, as though Crowley had just walked into the bookshop unannounced, not as though they had just met on the threshold of Hell. 

Crowley didn’t know how to respond. The angel stood out distinctly, all neat and off-white colors, juxtaposed with the dark griminess of Hell stretching out behind him. Crowley had half a mind to think it was a trick; demon’s weren’t above shape shifting. But there was an unmistakeable holiness around Aziraphale standing there, undoubtedly a genuine angel. The gnawing emptiness consuming Crowley had shrunk back, fizzling out with his seething rage to be replaced by total and utter confusion.

“A-angel,” he stammered.

“Would you mind if we went somewhere else?” Aziraphale prompted, and didn’t wait for an answer before grabbing Crowley by the wrist and pulling him back out of Hell with him.

For a moment Crowley could only stammer, trying and failing to start words, let alone sentences, and tossing the occasional glance back over his shoulder toward Hell. 

“What happened?” he finally managed, “How did you—?”

“They certainly caught me unawares,” Aziraphale admitted, walking with great purpose to the Bentley, which was waiting patiently. “But I happened to have some holy water on me, and that certainly did the trick.”

“It would,” Crowley had to admit, still struggling to keep up, not to mention understand what was happening. “So you just… left?”

“I certainly wasn’t going to stick around any longer than I had to,” Aziraphale pointed out. The pair climbed into the Bentley, and Crowley turned to face him,

“Let me take you to my place. They’re less likely to track you there.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale accepted.

"Are you alright?" Crowley asked, starting up the car.

"Fine." Aziraphale repeated.

The angel made it so far as the front door of the flat before collapsing.


	2. Hellfire

Crowley managed to get Aziraphale onto the bed, checking frantically for what might be wrong. He found metal cuffs hidden under Aziraphale’s sleeves; still warm, and undoubtedly forged in hellfire.

“Shit, Angel,” he muttered, snapping them off as quick as a miracle would let him, “what did they do to you?” he found a collar of the same stuff, hidden under that damn bowtie. When it broke apart Aziraphale shuddered, gasping and coughing. “Talk to me, Aziraphale,” Crowley begged, “what happened?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” was the angel’s weak excuse. Crowley sputtered indignantly.

* * *

Aziraphale had not, of course, told the whole truth when explaining his time in hell. He had, in fact, been caught entirely unawares, and been dragged down to the depths. There some demons had managed to saddle him with these cuffs and collar, searing hot, especially to an angel. His lucky break had been when they attempted to cripple his wings, at which point a vial of holy water he’d picked up several weeks ago fell out of his coat and busted apart, taking out every demon in the immediate vicinity. With no witnesses, Aziraphale had spruced himself up with a quick miracle or two to avoid evidence of weakness, and made a b-line for the exit, enough holy water having splashed on him that the smell alone kept demons at a fair distance. Then, thank god, he’d run into Crowley, and, well, perhaps he should have been more honest.

* * *

“How bad is it?” Crowley asked, “Did they do anything else?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, but he was still shuddering and breathing, so at least it was by choice.

“Aziraphale, what did they do?” Crowley repeated, rage slipping back into his voice. At that, Aziraphale’s wings unfurled, and oh, there was nothing good about this. Crowley could feel a twinge in his own wings as he looked over the damage. “Oh, no,” he breathed. At least on his you couldn’t see blood quite so well, but against the stark white… One was bent at just the wrong angle, and both were disturbingly tattered. The other was singed at one edge, and Crowley’s stomach turned to think hellfire might have been so close to his angel. “I’ll kill ‘em,” Crowley growled, “Every last one. I’ll burn hell from the ground up, Beelzebub, Satan— Fuck, I’ll take down heaven, too!” the demon’s wings flashed out, rage flooding through his veins all over again. He’d started to pace a few steps by the bed, “I’ll destroy them all. I’ll—“

“No,” Aziraphale whimpered, grabbing his hand, and Crowley stilled, wings drifting down to his sides.

“No?” he echoed, “but—“

“I know they deserve it,” Aziraphale assured him, as Crowley crouched back down beside him, “believe me. But it’s not worth it.”

“Of course it is!” Crowley snapped, “Obviously they won’t let us alone unless I—“

“I can’t lose you,” Aziraphale pleaded.

Crowley deflated completely under the angel’s worried look, and for a moment, he was silent.

“I’ll just fix you up, then, alright?” he offered, all the volume and venom drained from his voice. When he didn’t get any protests he put his demonic miracles to good use; with a touch (and a fair amount of energy) he soothed the burns on Aziraphale’s wrists and neck, and fixed up the poor wings, though he couldn’t quite restore some of the feathers (that confirmed it: they’d been burned by hellfire, if only barely). 

“Stay with me,” Aziraphale said, and without missing a beat, Crowley replied,

“Of course, Angel.” He climbed up onto the bed, one arm around Aziraphale. But as the angel drifted off, Crowley stayed alert. 

In fact, he didn’t sleep for months.


End file.
